


Narrative Cliche

by orphan_account



Category: Discworld - Pratchett, House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animal Death, Cliche, Footnotes, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-31
Updated: 2010-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson try using logic to cure Mr. Pibblebottom; Cameron, Chase, and Foreman try using Wilson to cure House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narrative Cliche

On a not particularly foggy but most definitely not clear morning in the city of Ankh-Morpork, a pigeon was preparing to feast. Most pigeons probably wouldn't consider a mid-sized human a feast, but Ankh-Morpork's famous feral pigeons were a different matter. Besides, this one was moving slowly. An easy target--

He never saw the stick coming. A pity. It had rather fetching decorative flames on it.

*

Oh that same rather but not entirely foggy morning, two men were striding down the same street as if they owned the it. In fact, they did not. It was owned by one Mr. Pibblebottom, a man known for his devotion to work, his unswerving personal hygiene and as of late, the little red spots which had risen up over his body. The two men, as usually happened in cases like these, were rather opposites. One man was scrawny and mangy and, judging from his current behavior, seemed prone to poking things with his cane while ranting obsessively. The other man, who was clean in the way of senators and scout leaders and men who your mommy wouldn't have let you play with had she been thinking clearly, was trying his hardest to avoid being poked with the cane.

"What would make a previously healthy man break out little red hives?" the scrawny man asked. "If they were purple and smelled like tuna fish, then it would obviously be a case of the Lancre Plague. If they were green, I'd think he'd been playing in the river. But red? Who breaks out in red spots?"

"Honestly, why can't you forget about the case for just a minute?"

"Forget about a case?" the man said, peering at his friend. "Does that sound like me?"

"I'm telling you, I don't think it's healthy. You and your obsession with solving things! You need to readjust your priorities."

"My priorities are fine. Honestly. Now shut up and let me think."

"Seriously. What would make you give up this case?"

The man turned to look at his friend. "Give up a case?" he asked. "Wilson, were you even paying attention at all?"

"A particularly fine and fast coach? The opportunity to bang a flaming hot, seriously horny twenty-year-old? I've gotta say, these days I'm not too sure."

"Hmmm." The scrawny man stopped here for a minute to ostentatiously examine his surroundings. He also took the opportunity to gesture wildly with his cane, causing the more alert denizens of the street to flee in terror. "Well, let's examine that last option. I don't see any flamingly hot, seriously horny twenty-year-olds around here. I just see you, actually, and I'm pretty sure you're not a flamingly hot, seriously horny twenty-year-old. I mean, if you've been hiding it all these years, I'm going to be soooo angry." He squinted at the other man, obviously considering something.

"I - no - what?"

The scrawny man grinned and hobbled on. The other threw up his hands in exasperation and then in disgust as he looked down at his feet. "HOUSE! Did you just kill a pigeon?"

*

A few blocks away, three solemn figures, who also frowned on being identified in dialogue tags, were conspiring.*

"What about Cuddy?" one asked.

"That dead dwarf from the Watch? Didn't know his tastes ran that way."

"His boss."

"Oh, that Cuddy." The second one was a bit dense sometimes. His colleagues secretly blamed it on the Four-ecksian tendency to drink anything labeled "Beer."

"I don't think so," the third one said.

"Why not?"

"They can't have sex. It'll spoil their UST."

"Well, what about you?"

"Me? I keep telling you, I'm not in love with him!"

"It's just sex! No love needed! Isn't that what you keep telling me?"

"I'm still not doing it! What about you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because afterward, he'd make fun of me and then I'd cry."

"You do get awful girly after, don't you?"

"Did not need to know that about you two."**

"Hey, what about you?"

"Yeah, what about you?"

"I'd rather quit than fuck House."

"Hmmm."

"What about Wilson?"

"Wilson." All three of them smiled (or rather, smirked).

*

"You want me to do what?!" James Wilson, the Lady Sybil Free Hospital's Chief of Protrusions, Lumps, Icky Things and Other Generally Unclassified Growths, asked.***

Robert Chase and his two conspirators looked at each other uncomfortably. "Look, House is getting worse and worse all the time," Cameron began. "We're sick of it."

"And I'm supposed to...." Wilson looked rather disgusted; Chase couldn't blame him for that. He shifted his weight and pondered sneaking out the back door while Cameron and Foreman dealt with Wilson, but Wilson's office did not actually have a back door to sneak out of.

"Look, everyone knows that Magical Healing Buttsex magically heals all wounds, both physical and emotional, right? It's a basic law of nature and magic and narrative cliche." Foreman's voice was cool and clinical as he explained. "I could go back and cite thousands of cases that have happened over the centuries, starting with Death helping Offler regrow a tooth after it got knocked out. In the most recent case, documented by Leonard of Quirm, that thing that the Watch employs became human --"

"--Actually, I think he always had this paper saying he really was a human," Cameron interrupted.

"And now he's recognizable as one," Foreman continued without missing a beat. "Look, Wilson. This will heal him, and honestly, we would all appreciate it if you would help out."

"You want me to WHAT?!" Wilson muttered under his breath, staring vacantly in the direction of Chase's knees.****

Chase thought to himself that you couldn't blame the man for objecting. Then he moved on to wondering just who had helped that spotty little ape-man become a human. About a fifth of a millisecond later, he shuddered violently. Some things didn't bear thinking about.

*

Later that day, the two men were once again walking down that particular street owned by that particular Mr. Pibblebottom. If it weren't for the narratives interspersed between that occasion and this, the story could be said to resume from that dead pigeon where we last encountered them. They were in the same spot, having just come from checking up on the unfortunate Mr. Pibblebottom, and were engaged in almost the exact same conversation. The only difference was Wilson: his pants were the slightest bit tighter than he normally wore, and he was wearing what he thought of as his sexiest tie.

"Red spots, and now he's sneezing. The creeping uglies?" House mused.

"His nose hasn't fallen off yet. Have you been sleeping lately? You look horrible."

"Hmmm. Maybe he has been playing in the river."

"You know you smell like you've been playing in the river? Will you please take a break?"

"But red spots? Red spots, red spots.... Wilson, why are you wearing your sexy tie?"

Wilson stopped, startled. "What?"

"The tie you wear whenever you try to seduce some girl. You know, you wear the tie, act all concerned for her well-being, try to be a kind and comforting friend and heal her oh so piteous, wounded self -- wait." Those who were familiar with Gregory House would have recognized his patented Look of Thought. His eyes were slightly downcast, and prone to darting back and forth rapidly. "That's exactly what you're trying to do to me! And, ha! You rolled your eyes! You always roll your eyes when I figure out something you've been hiding and you feel the need to do a half-assed attempt at denying it! Ha, I am the king!"

House looked up, his eyes filled with the slightly mad light they got whenever he'd had one of his epiphanies, to find Wilson staring at him. The silence stretched on for several minutes while the two looked at each other, seemingly unaware of their surroundings.*****

Then Wilson rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he exclaimed.

"Uh-huh," House said, turning and continuing on his limping way. "So, sexy time now?" He lifted his cane and thrust it in a vaguely suggestive way, as if for emphasis.

"Err, I can't. That little monkey-human-thing from the Watch has clamped my foot."

Later that night, there were fines and forms and lectures from the Watch about the Necessity of Not Blocking The Street. After those, there was sex, and, befitting all narrative conventions, it was Hot. It did even help House out a little. "Red spots! He has been playing in the river!"

Wilson rolled over and looked at him. "I thought you eliminated that, right? Humans don't get red spots from playing in the river."

"They do if they happen to be from Splot.******* There's a certain type of flea there, that when it is exposed to high energy magic like you would find at the University, will turn bright red. He probably went swimming in the river to get rid of his fleas, and when the river killed them, they stuck to his body! Wilson, I'm a genius!"

"What? What flea?"

"The Splot flea. Lives off of potatoes and werewolf blood, which is probably how Mr. Pibblebottom survived his trip into the river."

Wilson smiled to himself at that, which caused House to look at him with alarm. It's always a bit disconcerting to see someone smiling with self-satisfaction after sex, because, while they should be satisfied, a self-satisfied smile usually indicates some self-satisfaction has occurred and you have, unfortunately, failed to do your part.

"I notice you've remembered his name. He must be the first patient in years where you've remembered his name," Wilson said gently.

"Pshah. Pibblebottom. How can you forget that? I spent the first day after hearing that doing nothing but coming up with obscene jokes."

Wilson looked a bit disconcerted. "Yeah, that sounds like you. So, how can we cure Mr. Pibblebottom the Werewolf?"

"No clue. What does it matter? I've solved the case."

"HOUSE!"

"What? Fine, we'll make sure to remind him not to go swimming in the river. Gah. Werewolves are about the only thing not polluting it! No need to make things worse. And there, you have your happy ending - we're doing our bit to help clean up the city."

This was not, perhaps, the result that the conspirators had hoped for, but then again, this is the Discworld, where events obey the laws of nature, magic and narrative cliche, but only when they feel like it.

  
*Unlike most conspiracies, which by narrative convention must happen in a dark room with lots of people wearing hoods and no names ever being uttered, this one took place in a brightly lit room with lots of coffee and a whiteboard. If one had been paying close attention, one might have noticed a slightly furtive air to the proceedings, but it would have been hard to tell whether it was that which accompanies a genuine conspiracy or if it was simply three nervous subordinates hoping their boss wouldn't return to catch them slacking off.  
**Honestly, the first one was rather sorry he'd brought the subject up right now.  
***He asked this not out of any sort of misunderstanding, but because it seemed expected.  
****Which, like the rest of the token Four-eksian, were very decorative.  
*****This may have been the cause of a traffic jam that resulted in an egg shortage in Dolly Sisters and a wince-inducing headache for the Patrician******.  
******Which in turn resulted in a very happy evening for the Patrician's secretary, Drumknott.  
*******A not-particularly distinctive city in Northish Uberwald.


End file.
